


Traditional Decorations

by Sixthlight



Series: A Few Years Later [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Christmas, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, mistletoe made them do it, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And can any of you spell <i>sexual harassment seminar</i>?”, I pointedly did not say, because that’s the sort of heavy-handed management style that will get you mocked by all forty thousand members of the Met, who are contractually obliged to pretend they disapprove of politically correct concepts like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditional Decorations

**Author's Note:**

> In the same general future but, obviously, a different timeline to Good Grammar and The Requirements of a First Date. Pick your own get-together scenario!

I don’t know what it was that caught my attention before I stepped through the doorway; in retrospect, probably Molly’s smirk in our direction as she put down the last salver, piled with rice. She still had a residual fondness for the suet-and-potatoes cooking I’d grown so used to in my first year at the Folly, but it was regularly leavened these days by dishes that didn’t contain a single root vegetable, or, occasionally, meat. I hoped tonight’s dinner wasn’t one of those. It had been a long day and I needed the protein.

As I was saying, it’s not like Molly doesn’t smirk at me on a regular basis, but there was something particular about it, and also about the peculiarly expectant looks on the faces of the four other people, the new – _our_ new - apprentices seated around the dining table. Sometimes my subconscious works a lot faster than I do. On this occasion it halted me a step before the doorway, just long enough for Nightingale, walking beside me, to pass through it. The quickly-hidden disappointment on everyone’s faces – _including_ Molly, that traitorous woman – confirmed my suspicions. It was, after all, December.

Which was, presumably, the excuse for the sprig of mistletoe _someone_ had placed above the doorway. I didn’t go looking for it, just looked behind me as if remembering I’d forgotten something, shrugged, and continued towards the table; from the seat I chose, between Abigail and Choudhury, it was clearly visible.

“And can any of you spell _sexual harassment seminar_?”, I pointedly did not say, because that’s the sort of heavy-handed management style that will get you mocked by all forty thousand members of the Met, who are contractually obliged to pretend they disapprove of politically correct concepts like that. Also it was quite possible I’d then have to explain what one was to Nightingale, who apparently either hadn’t seen the mistletoe or was just pretending really hard he hadn’t for the sake of a peaceful meal. On the other hand Nightingale always applies himself industriously to meals when they are put before him, so maybe he was just waiting until he was done.  

They looked properly abashed, though, even Abigail – perhaps _especially_ Abigail, which was new – so I didn’t say anything at all.

That turned out to be a mistake.

*

It was only the first week of December, but over the next few days that bunch of mistletoe – or possibly multiple different bunches - appeared in progressively more inventive locations across the Folly. They were enjoying this, it seemed. I say _they_ because as much as Molly seemed to be finding  the whole thing great entertainment I was fairly certain this wasn’t her style of practical joke. Molly was much more into serving your tea cold or lurking in your bedroom doorway at three am. And obviously it wasn’t Nightingale, because he was giving the stuff as many dubious looks as I was and also he’d have needed a total personality transplant for it to be believable. And it had to be someone living _in_ the Folly because it kept reappearing. (Or poltergeists, but we’d definitely have noticed those.) In the library, the reading room, the lab…by the fifth day I was seriously reconsidering my decision to pointedly ignore it, and I said as much to Nightingale.

“They are displaying _remarkable_ persistence,” he agreed with me. “And in such a novel way.”

“Novel? Did people never put up mistletoe in the Folly, back in your day?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“I thought that sort of thing was, you know, traditional.”

“Oh, it was, but the traditional purpose revolved around girls and their marriage prospects. Considering the composition of the Folly’s membership at the time, I think most people here would have been much too – what’s that word Stephanopoulos used? – _heteronormative_ to think about it. After all, the only women in the place were some of the downstairs staff, like Molly, and that would have been coercive at best. Whether the staff did at their own parties I couldn’t say.”

My brain was still too stuck on Nightingale being aware of, much less using correctly, a word like _heteronormative_ to process most of that. “Oh. Right.” I frowned. “But why _now_?”

He shrugged. “It’s the first Christmas they’ve had here. And it’s not that much work to just pretend it isn’t there.”

“It’s the _giggling_ ,” I said darkly. “And the whispering.”

“I will admit,” Nightingale said, sighing, “it’s getting a bit wearying.”

“They have way too much time on their hands.” I grinned. “Fortunately, I can think of a few cures for that.”

None of them seemed very impressed when I noted that, especially Abigail, and they were all _distinctly_ unimpressed when I volunteered them to start transcribing the ghost-story catalogues – something I’d been meaning to do for years and now had minions to do for me. But I made it very clear – without mentioning anything specific – _why_ this was happening, and after that the mistletoe was absent for a good three days. I was just about to conclude they – and by they I mostly meant Abigail – had learned their lesson when I arrived in the tech cave one rainy December afternoon to find Nightingale had the rugby on. I had been intending to type up a report, but the lure of the couch proved irresistible, and I flopped down next to him. Just a few minutes of staring mindlessly at the screen before I got out my laptop and did some actual work, I promised myself. Besides, I still didn’t like watching rugby enough to be really distracted by it anyway.

“I didn’t think it had been _that_ exhausting a week,” said Nightingale.

“It’s all the watching when I step through doorways,” I said. “I’ve been on edge all bloody week. At least they seem to have given up. They’ve tried just about every room in the main building, and I haven’t seen any for three days.”

He opened his mouth as if to agree and then seemed to be struck by a sudden, awful thought. As this awful thought was also the one occurring to me, we raised our gazes to the roof above us.

Nightingale let out a heavy sigh. “Or perhaps you speak too soon.” The mistletoe had, as if by magic – possibly literally, although it better bloody not have been seeing as we were in the tech cave – migrated to the beam above the couch. It hung there like a tiny parasitic harbinger of doom.

Okay, that was it, they were all _officially_ getting yelled at. Or maybe they were just going to weather some really heavy sarcasm, I hadn’t decided. Nightingale could probably quell them all with a look – well, maybe not, it hadn’t worked on me or Lesley back when – but I was a mere DS and so had to content myself with raising the volume or lowering the tone of my speech.

“Do you have any idea what they’re actually trying to accomplish with this?” I asked, trying not to sound too whiny. “Can’t they just get drunk and make out with each other if there’s not enough ill-thought-out workplace kissing in their lives?”

“I think they find this funnier,” Nightingale said.

“Apparently we haven’t scared them enough.”

“Well…there’s Abigail.”

“Abigail what?”

“Has Abigail _ever_ demonstrated any sort of fear of authority?”

“No, but I was hoping the others might decline to follow her terrible example. Or at least get bored of this after the first couple of goes.”

“I will admit this is somewhat beyond the problems I was expecting with multiple apprentices.” Nightingale frowned up at the offending piece of greenery.

I squinted at it. “You know what? Let’s get it down, take it out to the courtyard, and _burn_ the damn thing.”

Nightingale’s lips twitched. “Is there a _reason_ every solution you come up with involves either explosions or fire?”

This was a bit rich coming from someone whose solutions to past crises had involved phosphorus grenades, wholesale building destruction, and bombing it from altitude just to be sure. But saying that would have spoiled the mood, so I nobly refrained. It was hard on my self-restraint, though. Maybe that explained what I said next.  

“Go big or go home, that’s my motto,” I told him. “And please don’t tell me that it’s bad luck to take it down or whatever.”

“Oh, not that I know of,” he said. “The only tradition I’m familiar with is the one that says you won’t get married in the coming year if you refuse a kiss under mistletoe.”

“Okay, one, I’m pretty sure that only applies to women, because you told me that, two, let me stop to contain my horror at that notion, and three, I don’t see anyone in this room offering to – um.” I cut myself off just in time. Nightingale was looking faintly startled, either at my own uncontrolled train of thought or – I wasn’t sure what. “Um, never mind.”

He still wasn’t saying anything, just sort of blinking at me, and it was all going to get hideously uncomfortable – _more_ hideously uncomfortable – if I didn’t say something quickly, so I said, “Unless _you’re_ worried about your marital prospects.”

He laughed, and it was quiet but genuine, so I relaxed a little. “I can’t say I am, no.”

I gave him my best cheeky bugger grin, because this was a joke, right? “Well, then.” I stood. “Might need a hand to get it down, though.”

Nightingale’s fingers sort of twitched, and I straight-up glared at him. He might be my governor and all but if there's one rule I get to enforce around here it’s the _no magic around the expensive computer systems_ rule, not that he’s ever broken it as far as I know. But I guess a century or so of using magic is habit-forming.

“They have to have gotten it up there the regular way,” I said, looking around for something to stand on. The chaise-longue had finally given up the ghost earlier this year, sufficiently after that little incident with Simone – which was almost a fond memory now - that I could safely blame it on someone else. So it was the couch, one of the rolling desk-chairs we used for the computer tables, or nothing. I was still the tallest person at the Folly, with Nightingale close behind, so unless they’d brought a stepladder up here or something it had to be reachable.

“Must have been the couch,” Nightingale said.

“Right.” I toed off my trainers, because I knew for a fact Nightingale had opinions about putting your dirty shoes all over the furniture, and he probably wouldn’t say anything but he _would_ make a face at me. “Try not to let me fall over?”

The beam was high enough that I couldn’t balance with a hand on it, just stand on the back of the couch and reach up. Behind me, the crowd roared their approval of something that had happened in the rugby; to his credit, Nightingale didn’t stop to check, just put his weight against the couch to stop it tipping over. The mistletoe had only been fastened with a bit of bluetack, and came away easily when I pulled at it; so easily that I nearly fell over, and Nightingale had to steady me with a hand on my leg. I jumped straight down behind the couch, landing more heavily than I’d intended.

“Hah,” I said. “Got it. Where do you even _find_ mistletoe these days, in the middle of London?”

“I should think you could get some in several of the parks and commons, if you were willing to climb to get it. Or with a discreetly applied spell.” Nightingale stood next to me and peered at the small bundle of twigs, leaves, and berries in my hand; it felt like he was weirdly close, although it wasn’t really any closer than he needed to be.

“Oh, great, it’s shedding.” I ducked to pick up a couple of the berries, which had fallen onto the carpet below. “I’ve never really looked at it up close before. I didn’t realise it had berries.”

“That was part of the tradition,” said Nightingale. “If you got a kiss from a girl below it, you had to pluck one of the berries; when they were all gone, you couldn’t ask for a kiss below the mistletoe anymore. Or not that particular piece of mistletoe.”

“So what does three get me?” my mouth said without any input at all from my brain, as I held out the berries I’d picked up off the floor.

Nightingale looked surprised, then extremely thoughtful, and then without any warning whatsoever leaned in and kissed me.

On the cheek, I hasten to add, nothing indecorous. His lips were warm and dry and there was the faintest graze of stubble. It was done almost before I’d registered it.

“There,” he said. “Tradition is satisfied.” His voice didn’t even _waver_ , the bastard.

At this point I pretty much had two choices. I could laugh, say “okay”, dump the mistletoe in the bin (perhaps for later burning, I was undecided), and let him get back to watching the rugby. It was still playing in the background, the only source of noise in the room right now apart from the sound of our breathing. Or. Or I could.

And because this is me, right, and if we’re being perfectly honest I have a history of bad-decision making regarding kissing people in the coach house, or at least I was about to acquire a history, I said “Really? That’s all it takes?”

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. “It’s a tradition that was largely practiced in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in large gatherings, so yes.”

“Last time I checked it was the twenty-first century.”

“So it is,” he said, and he didn’t say or do anything else, but he didn’t step away, either, so I kissed him.

Properly, you understand, on the mouth, just so we couldn’t pretend I was returning the favour or something equally deniable, because – if I was going to do something this mad I might as well do it whole-heartedly. Because this was Thomas Nightingale, who’d been my teacher and my boss and my friend for a really long time now, and there definitely weren’t going to be any second chances here.

It was a bit awkward, and not even for the obvious reasons; I was still holding that stupid mistletoe, see, so my hands weren’t really free. It was Nightingale who reached up and put a hand on my arm, shockingly warm in the cool air of the coach house even through my shirtsleeve. For a fraction of a second I thought he was pushing me away, but his fingers wrapped around the curve of my elbow and I was being pulled _closer_. Well. That was all right, then.

The kiss didn’t last very long – we weren’t making out or anything, just – kissing, close-mouthed. I was hyper-aware of everything, every point we were touching and all the ones we weren’t, of both of us leaning into it, of the fact I was still in my socks. I wanted to do a lot more of this, I decided, if not now then at some future point. And that was why it was a bad decision, see – I should have known that if I did this once I wasn’t going to be able to forget about it, or laugh it off, or anything.  

“See, that’s more like it,” I said when we separated, and if my voice _was_ wavering a little, well, that wasn’t really the important thing right now. “The updated version.”

Nightingale was looking at me, had been all along, a gleam in his grey eyes that I quite liked. “Is that how it works these days?”

Now I’d never actually kissed anyone under mistletoe – kissed people at Christmas parties, sure, heard songs about it, absolutely, but there had been a strange absence of your actual mistletoe in my life until this point. “To the best of my knowledge, yep.”

“Ah. Well.” He seemed to have run out of words. His hand was still on my elbow. I wanted to kiss him some more and I knew I shouldn’t. For one thing, any of the apprentices might show up at any minute and I had no intention whatsoever of letting them find out their stupid joke had worked, sort of. For another, if - when I did kiss him again I didn’t want there to be any excuses for it.

“I should get rid of this,” I said, nodding down at the mistletoe in my hands. “Still think I should burn it?”

“I think you _want_ to burn it.”

“I’m just trying to make sure it doesn’t come back.”

I must have sounded a little too dry, because Nightingale let his hand drop, moving back slightly. “It will be pleasant to not have to constantly be looking up.”

“I just don’t like feeling pressured into things,” I said all in a rush, “because a bunch of PCs think it’s funny. But I don’t mind – things. In general. If – if you don’t. In fact, I think I’m in favour of them, all things considered.”

Nightingale looked confused by this, which was fair, because it was not the most transparent way I had ever found to tell someone I fancied them, or the most enthusiastic, come to that. But I was fairly certain transparent enthusiasm stood a good chance of scaring him off. And I’d only really come to that conclusion myself in the last five minutes, so I felt I was doing a good job articulating it at all. My normal style was just to let things happen – or better yet, let other people make things happen.

I took a breath. “I’m going to go out and set this on fire,” I said more firmly. “Then I’m going to stand around and make sure it doesn’t set anything else on fire. And you can get back to your game.” It was half-time, judging by the telly, but even so. “And then I’m going to…come back up here.”

“And?” said Nightingale.

“Still working on that one,” I said and made such a hasty exit I completely forgot I wasn’t wearing my shoes until I was out the door.

Did I mention it was raining? Not bucketing down, thank god, just a sort of dreary drizzle. My socks were soaked through from the water pooling on the stairs about half a second after I stepped outside, so there was no point going back in. I walked about halfway down, to make sure I was out of magical damage radius. I’d told off Abigail for doing magic just outside the coach house door, and I don’t like to be a hypocrite when I know I’m doing it. Then I shielded myself from the rain, so I wouldn’t get any _more_ wet – it was how I’d got out to the coach house in the first place – levitated the damn mistletoe, and set it on fire. If I’d been really upset I couldn’t have done it at all, of course, because that’s not how Newtonian magic works – the calmer you are, the easier it is, for certain values of _easy_. But it was more than a little bit satisfying; it was dry from having been hung up in various parts of the Folly for a week or more, and the brief dampening it had gotten from the drizzle didn’t stop it curling up and blackening into ash.

I was so busy watching it burn, and also keeping an eye out for any stray apprentices heading for the coach house and encountering me burning mistletoe in my socks and drawing whatever conclusions they were going to draw from that – although I was fairly sure Abigail was out chasing something up and the other three had last been seen practicing in the lab – that I totally missed Nightingale coming down the stairs behind me.

“Your _shoes_ , Peter,” he said, half-exasperated and half-tentative.

“I know,” I said, not turning around. “No point now; I’ll just get them wet too.” It was really pretty unpleasant, my damp socks clinging to my feet, but it wasn’t going to get better while I stood here.

The mistletoe that had caused us so much trouble was little more than powdered ash; anger might not help you with magic but I’d used a very _focused_ version of _lux_. I let it go, and it didn’t even visibly fall, just sort of mingled with the rain, my own tiny contribution to London’s carbon emissions.

He put a hand on my shoulder, but I could swear, just before he did, I’d felt a brush of warmth near my left hand, like he’d almost taken it and pulled back. “Do come back inside, at least.”

“I did say I would,” I told him, and followed him back up the spiral stairs. I had to let the rainshield go, so we moved briskly; I stopped on the threshold to pull off my now-soaked socks and drop them on the doorstep, so that the carpet wouldn’t get too hideously damp. Molly didn’t really clean up here, ceding it to the rest of us, but she did come in and if she spotted we’d left a waterstain on the carpet or worse, mould, would I ever be in for it. It’s really surprising how acerbic Molly can be without using words.

“So I thought about it,” I began, at the same time as Nightingale was saying “I’m sorry if –”

We both stopped, looked at each other, looked away, and then I said, in a tone I tried really hard not to make defiant, because who the hell was I defying anyway, “I’m not. Sorry, that is.”

That seemed to make some of the tension leak out of him; his shoulders relaxed fractionally, anyway. “Oh? Good.”

“Good?” I repeated, because – I hadn’t been expecting that.

He was smiling, now, and it reminded me weirdly of when he’d ventured into the Strip Club of Dr. Moreau, or any of the other times I’d see him do something really dangerous. It wasn’t that same grin, not even close, but it still said  _I’m enjoying this_ because _there might be consequences._ “It didn’t seem like you were, but under the circumstances -”

“I just needed a moment,” I said.

“For what, exactly?”

 _To think,_ I thought _. Because contrary to what some people will tell you I do think these things through and I needed to decide whether I’d regret doing this or not doing this more._

“Because it’d be pretty easy to pretend this was a joke, right?” I said aloud, and stepped towards him, bare feet and all. It was weird how vulnerable the lack of shoes could make you feel. Or maybe it was the conversation. “Oh, how funny, we got chased with mistletoe and had a kiss under it and that was that. But -” I was right up next to him, now, and he wasn’t moving away, and that was, you know, good. A good sign. “But I don’t want to do that.”

“I hope you know,” he said quietly, and put a hand to my face – my heart just about stopped beating – “I’d never do that for a joke.”

“Me either,” I said, and then fortunately we came to the mutual conclusion that we’d had enough of talking about it and got back to the kissing part, and so on, without the benefit of any mistletoe whatsoever. And we even managed to get cleaned up before any of the apprentices decided to come out to the coach house.  
  
They were really confused about the socks, though.


End file.
